


a day

by flaneuse



Series: grad school au [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Medical Marijuana Use, mentions of drug addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaneuse/pseuds/flaneuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dorian finds out something about cullen. he's selfish, but cullen makes him not want to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a day

Dorian wakes up, a small, involuntary groan escaping his lips. The sun is bright on his face because he never shuts his curtains—and don’t his neighbors appreciate that—so he turns over, one eye opening to peek at his phone, perched on his bedside table. The beauty of being a student is getting to make your own schedule, which means no classes that start before noon. The horror of being a grad student is having to teach introductory courses, and being at the whim of the university scheduling system. Still, today isn’t actually a day he’s scheduled to teach, so when he checks the time, he’s happy to see it’s just past eleven.

Dorian has never, and will never, be a morning person. He stays up late, reading and smoking and drinking (always in a weirdly grandfatherly way however—he’s not really given to partying, surprisingly), and he sleeps in late, relishing the feeling of waking up on his own, instead of being savagely yanked out of sleep by the shrill beeping of his alarm. He stretches leisurely and his sheets are soft on his body. If there’s one thing Dorian will splurge on, it’s sheets. And alcohol. And clothes. And weed. And—okay, he comes from money, and he’s pretty much willing to spend it on anything. But he definitely does care about the sheets the most.

He has office hours though, at two, so with a theatrical groan (even though there’s nobody there to hear it), he heaves himself out of bed. He pulls on the robe that he left thrown over his desk chair and makes his way to the kitchen, where Bull is sitting with a cup of coffee. 

“Make me some?” He asks pitifully, and Bull just looks at him. “You brute,” Dorian sniffs, and sets out making it for himself.

“Man, I knew rich kids were spoiled, but Dorian, you are one special case.” Bull says, and Dorian just rolls his eyes.

“Yes, mummy could buy me a lot of things, but unfortunately a sense of responsibility was not one of them.” Dorian finishes making the coffee, grateful for the technology of a Keurig, which absolutely suits his lazy habits, and grabs a bagel, not bothering to toast it. He settles himself in across from Bull and tears a piece off, dunking it in his mug. “How are your students?” He asks, because it’s the beginning of the semester and he already kind of hates his. “Already got them terrorized?”

Bull laughs. “Half of them,” he affirms. “The other half love me. The class is ‘The Physicality of Spying: Secrecy and Sacrifice in WWII.’ You always get good students when the class names are really specific.”

“You didn’t make that up yourself?” Dorian asks, jealous. They always stick him with intro classes. He doesn’t particularly mind, as he knows he has the flourish to make just about anything sound interesting, but he’d kill to teach something good, something he could really sink his teeth into.

“The topic? Yeah. The title? Hell no. Josie helped me out with that one.”

“God, you must have the most wonderful time. How did the political science department get you, Josephine, and Leliana all at once? I’m stuck with Solas and you know what a stick in the mud he is.” Dorian huffs. Solas is intelligent, and occasionally they really connect, but they have opposing views on just about everything, especially what’s considered appropriate office conduct.

“You know,” Bull says thoughtfully. “You could probably teach something more advanced, but you’ve never asked. I just walked into the head of the department’s office and said I wanted something good, showed them a couple sample syllabi I’d come up with, and the next thing I knew I was out of the intro bullshit. Maybe it helps that I’ve been here longer though.”

“Maybe it helps that you’re over six feet tall and nobody will ever say no to you.” Dorian mutters.

“Your problem is that you never take anything for yourself. Sure, you came out, left your family, and moved here on your own,” Bull says this all bluntly, and Dorian winces. “But you can’t just make one big decision your whole life and think that’ll amount to something. Life’s full of big decisions. If you want something, you gotta reach out and take it. And Dorian,” Bull says, and then his tone drops, and his voice becomes gruff with emotion. “I know you spent a lot of years convincing yourself that what you wanted didn’t matter, but it does. You’re not at home anymore. You’re an adult. You’re living off your own income. You can want things. You can ask for them.”

Dorian feels something funny in his chest. He’s not exactly sure what he’s done to deserve Bull, whose friendship comes without any expectations and whose shrewdness is always exactly what Dorian needs, but he hopes he hasn’t used up all his good karma yet.

 

Dorian can’t stop thinking about Bull’s words all day. Dorian has always had the gift of introspection, however he lacks the wherewithal to do anything about it. Translation: he understands his flaws perfectly well, but damn if he doesn’t fall prey to them over and over again. He feels a special affinity for Cassandra—of Greek myth, not of the English department. Gifted with prophecy yet cursed to never be believed. She shouted and shouted and nobody ever listened, and in the end, she marched knowingly to her own destruction. Yeah, he gets that. So he knows that Bull is right. That doesn’t mean he’s going to do anything about it. 

He sits in his office—except that it’s only actually his on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 2-4—and frowns. There’s a conference in a few months that he really should be preparing for but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead he thinks about Cullen, and hates himself for it. Yes, Dorian has desires, and some of those certainly pertain to his future in academia, but those just don’t come to the forefront right now. Instead he thinks about Cullen, thinks about their friendship and how desperately he wants it to be more, how he flirts outrageously because he knows Cullen will never take it seriously, despite the fact that he’s practically screaming on the inside. _Want me! Want me!_ And sometimes, it’s sexual. There’s no way it couldn’t be. He’d love to fuck Cullen, have Cullen fuck him, but it’s more than that, and that’s what frightens him. Because the voice in his head doesn’t just scream to be wanted, it screams to be accepted, and loved. To be held and desired and supported and needed. To have his wants to be put first, only to love Cullen so much that his wants become irrelevant, because his wants are Cullen’s wants. 

But he still doesn’t believe he deserves it. Sure, he knows it in a theoretical sense. Everyone deserves love, and Dorian is no exception. But when it comes down to it, Dorian cannot fathom that anyone could feel that way about _him_. That anyone, that Cullen, could look at Dorian and see his faults and fucked-up past and self-destructive coping mechanisms and think, _hey, I want all of that. Even the bad. Especially the bad._ That is an impossibility Dorian cannot comprehend.

Another impossibility Dorian cannot comprehend is how a student could have trouble with the straightforward and detailed prompt he gave them for their first essay, but the arrival of just that takes him out of his self-pitying reverie for a while, at least.

 

Dorian thinks he’s pretty self-aware, but every so often, he forgets one of his most important flaws: just how self-centered he can be. Which is why when he drops by Cullen’s apartment later that day to berate him for missing their standing coffee date, he feels like a complete ass when Cullen opens the door and looks, well, like shit. Guilt flashes over Cullen’s face and Dorian feels even worse.

“Look, Dorian—“ Cullen starts, and his voice is wracked with something that Dorian can’t quite figure out, so he changes tactics in an instant.

“Shh, shh, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard that there’s nothing my handsome face can’t fix, so I’m here to do what I can. For the sake of America, and all that, I’m sure.”

Cullen doesn’t even crack a smile and that’s when Dorian knows something is wrong. Still, he takes a step back and lets Dorian in regardless, which Dorian is absurdly grateful for. Cullen doesn’t say another word to Dorian, just walks back to his bedroom, and Dorian follows. There’s nothing particularly out of place except Cullen himself, who looks disheveled and wrecked, and not in the way Dorian would like him to be. Cullen lowers himself gingerly onto his bed, wincing, and Dorian notices how he can’t stop shifting, like he can’t get comfortable.

“What’s wrong?” Dorian asks gently.

Cullen’s eyes are closed tightly. Dorian realizes he’s in pain, and not the typical, run-of-the-mill pulled muscle one might expect from Cullen.

“Old football injury from high school. Never healed right and I have chronic back pain from it.”

“You’re holding back on me,” Dorian says, still gentle. “This doesn’t look like any old injury.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever been in,” Cullen says on an exhale, clearly not even bothering to hide it anymore. Somehow Dorian has situated himself on the edge of Cullen’s bed, and he pulls Cullen’s head into his lap, running his fingers through his hair. It’s thick and curly, and Dorian rarely gets to see it like this because Cullen is usually so put together. 

“Can I get you anything?” Dorian asks. “Some ibuprofen maybe?”

Cullen shakes his head. “Doesn’t do anything for me.”

Dorian is confused. “If it’s so bad, shouldn’t you have a prescription for something? Oxy? Percocet?”

Cullen shakes his head again. “I…can’t.” He says, anguished.

“I don’t understand.” Dorian admits, and there’s a pit in his stomach, and he feels like something is wrong.

Cullen has a hand clenched in Dorian’s shirt, and he’s turned his face into Dorian’s stomach. He won’t look at him.

“I—“ Cullen starts, and then whimpers, shifting again. “I had a problem, back when I first got messed up,” Cullen whispers, the words coming out in a rush. “I thought I was going to go to college for football. Get a scholarship. My parents were so proud. Then I got hurt. And I started taking pills. They were prescription at first. It was Percocet, actually. And I was so pissed, knew I was never going to play again. So I took them more and more, and when they told me I should be fine, that I could get by on Advil, it wasn’t enough. I started buying from dealers and—“

“You don’t have to tell me anymore,” Dorian says. How had he never known this about Cullen? Cullen, after Bull, is his best friend, and this is clearly such an integral part of him and he never knew, too caught up in his own shit to realize. He doesn’t know what he can do to make this better. Emotional hurt he’s better with. He knows how to distract, how to dull raw edges. He doesn’t know what to do with this. “I’m sorry,” is all he can come up with.

“I’m, uh—“ Cullen starts to say. “I’m so ashamed,” his voice breaks and a little part of Dorian breaks too.

“Don’t,” he says, voice trembling but his hand never wavering as he continues to thread it through Cullen’s hair. “It’s not your fault. You’re not any less for it,” Dorian says, adamant. “And I don’t feel any differently about you.” He’s afraid he might have said too much with that last statement, but either Cullen doesn’t notice or he just doesn’t care.

Cullen doesn’t respond, so Dorian lets it be, until he gets an idea. 

“Cullen,” he starts. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Cullen says plainly.

“Have you ever tried weed?” He asks, getting excited.

“Dorian, I just told you I’m a drug addict,” Cullen starts bitterly, but Dorian barrels over him.

“No, please, hear me out for a second. You wouldn’t begrudge a cancer patient the use of medical marijuana, right? Indica doesn’t fuck with your mind the way you’re probably thinking. It’s pure body high. It relaxes your muscles, reduces pain—there’s a reason there’s a whole movement around legalizing this for health care. And it’s not addictive. It’s not pills, Cullen.” 

“I don’t know,” Cullen says, hesitant, but Dorian can hear the curiosity in his voice.

“If you won’t believe me, would you trust Josephine? Don’t tell her I told you, but she uses it for her menstrual cramps, and that’s it. She doesn’t smoke to get high, just once a month when she gets her period.”

“How do you even know all this?” Cullen asks, and Dorian can see the back of his neck turning red, no doubt because they’re talking about Josephine’s menstruation. 

“Do you really think Josie knows where to get weed? She gets it through me. In fact, I was going to head over to her place later to drop some off. I know way more about her cycle than I’d like to. I have it with me, Cullen. Just try it once, please, and if it’s bad, if it triggers you, I promise you I will be here the whole time to deal with the aftermath. I’ll do anything you need. I won’t leave you alone.”

Maybe it’s the vehemence in his voice, maybe it’s the chance to make the pain go away, but Cullen nods.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll try it.”

Dorian smiles brilliantly and gently moves Cullen’s head back on to the bed. “Give me a minute,” he starts digging through his bag and find what he’s looking for. He has papers but he doesn’t have the patience to roll right now, so he’s relieved when he finds his tiny pipe in a pocket of his bag. He takes the eighth that was meant for Josie (he’ll just have to get her more later, and he’s more than willing to pay out of his own pocket if it means this goes towards helping Cullen) and breaks it up, packing it in the bowl. He sets it down and turns to Cullen.

“Can you sit up for a moment?” He asks, and Cullen nods, heaving himself up with a groan. Dorian puts a pillow between Cullen and the headboard and Cullen sinks back against it gratefully. He hands the pipe to Cullen, covering Cullen’s hands with his own, showing him how to hold it. Cullen’s hand are so broad and warm, and Dorian relishes the moment more than he should. 

“Okay, I’ll light it for you. You just need to suck in, and when the pipe fills with smoke, you take your finger off the hole and suck in again, to really get it in your lungs. But breathe in slowly, and don’t try and take too much at first. Normally coughing is fine, but I don’t want you to hurt your back any more.”

Cullen looks a little afraid, but he nods resolutely. He puts his lips to the pipe and Dorian lights it, holding the flame over the bowl. Cullen isn’t sucking, so Dorian nudges him, and he inhales slowly, just as Dorian said. After a moment Dorian moves the lighter away and Cullen follows Dorian’s directions perfectly, moving his finger and clearing the smoke. He holds it in for a moment, and then exhales, smoke streaming from his mouth in a perfect, unbroken cloud. 

“Good?” Dorian asks, and Cullen nods. The bowl is cherried, so Dorian tells Cullen to take another hit and this time he does so with far less hesitation. Cullen’s lung capacity is amazing, Dorian notes.

“How are you feeling?” Dorian asks after a moment. 

Cullen takes a second before responding. “It’s…quicker than I thought it would be. I feel it.”

Any other time, Dorian would laugh, because one of his greatest delights is getting people high for the first time (he’s probably the reason half of his friend group has even tried weed at all), but this is Cullen, and he’s not going to do that. 

“It works pretty quickly,” Dorian agrees. “What do you feel?”

Cullen seems to think about it. “I feel better, but I don’t feel foggy, like I thought I would. The pain isn’t gone, but it’s definitely less.”

“Well, I pride myself on getting the good stuff,” Dorian smiles, and Cullen finally, finally smiles back at him for the first time today. “Come on then, smoke the whole bowl.”

Cullen does so with enthusiasm, holding the pipe himself. He’s adapting pretty quickly.

“You’re right,” he says, a blissed out smile on his face.

“Hm?” Dorian asks. He’s carding his fingers through Cullen’s hair again.

“It doesn’t feel like pills. I’m not scared.”

Dorian is disproportionately relieved. If he’d betrayed Cullen’s trust, fucked up his recovery, he never would have forgiven himself. 

“Come on then,” Dorian says. “Lay down with me.”

They situate themselves on the bed, Dorian on his back and Cullen on his stomach, laying half on top of Dorian. Dorian can see that the hard line of tension is gone from his shoulders, and he’s no longer holding himself so tightly. The bottom of Cullen’s shirt has ridden up and Dorian can’t stop himself from stroking the soft skin there. He runs his palm up and down Cullen’s back, fingers dancing along his spine.

“That feels good,” Cullen slurs, and Dorian looks down to see that Cullen is half-asleep. “Don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” Dorian assures him, and he doesn’t. At least this time, his wants seem to align with Cullen, and he won’t give that up easily.


End file.
